


Medieval Snails

by stardustbunnies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustbunnies/pseuds/stardustbunnies
Summary: "au where keith is one of those amazing street artists with the spray paint that can make beautiful shit in like three minutes and lance is like an art school kid who like actually studies art"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [24starsofthesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/24starsofthesea/gifts).



“Come on, Lance, it’s not exactly rocket science. And I should know, I’m–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re an aerospace engineer,” Lance said, grumbled, crumbling up another piece of paper and chucking it in the trash. “When are you going to stop using that joke?”

“If you were studying aerospace engineering, would you ever stop?” Pidge noted, eyes still fixed on her laptop screen. Lance had to admit she made a pretty good point.

“You know, if you think about it, art is just anything that expresses meaning, so a trash bin full of unfinished sketches counts as art, right?” Lance asked helplessly. “Because it expresses the–the endless yet futile pursuit of self-expression and the complex soul of a true artist?”

Pidge looked away from her computer briefly to raise her eyebrows at Lance. “I’m pretty sure even for art that counts as bullshit.”

Lance groaned and lobbed another ball of paper at Pidge.

The assignment was just to make something that represented what art meant to him, it should have been easy, but the question had been driving him crazy for days.

What was art to him? Art was the purpose he had dedicated his life to ever since he was a kid, doodling lions and aliens on napkins and homework assignments. Art was the anchor to sanity that got him through all the typical shit in his teenage years. Art was the field that he still wanted to pursue after his dream college put him on the waiting list, and the field he eventually got to pursue after some other kid got kicked out. Art was the subject that kept him up at four in the morning, drawing and erasing and drawing again, trying to prove that he was more than waiting-list material. Art was–well, it was everything to Lance.

If only he could figure out how to draw that feeling on a piece of paper.

“Hey, uh, maybe you’re onto something with that trash can idea,” Hunk adds, handing Lance a cup of tea and sitting across from him. “Maybe you’re about to create, um, post-postmodernism, or something.”

Lance looked up at Hunk gratefully and shook his head. “Thanks, man, but post-postmodernism has already been invented. It’s been around since the late nineties, actually."

Pidge snorted. “Seriously? Post-postmodernism. When is art just going to die for real?” She took a sip of coffee and went back to typing. 

“Huh, you know, ‘art is dead’, that’s a thing, right? Not half bad,” Lance started, tapping his pen against the table. “Maybe I can print out a picture of the Mona Lisa, get a lithium battery and some unicorn stickers–“

“Okay, please don’t finish that sentence,” Hunk said, standing up abruptly. “Lance, I can’t stand seeing you like this. Do you want to take a walk with me? Clear your head?”

“Are you sure? I think if I just drink a little more caffeine and work harder–“

“Let me rephrase that,” Hunk interrupted. “Lance, you need to talk a walk with me, right now.”

Lance sighed. “I’ll get my jacket.”

-

“I mean, what kind of a question is that anyway?” Lance said to the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. “‘What is art to you’. It’s so vague, you could do anything with a question like that.”

“I don’t know, I feel like that was kind of the point? That art could sort of be anything?” Hunk noted. 

“Come on, art isn’t supposed to be anything. It has to be refined to some degree. Proper.”

“You were trying to pass your trash can off as art ten minutes ago.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been proud of it.” Lance muttered. He sighed and looked up at Hunk hopelessly. “God, I don’t know. Maybe I’m not really cut out for this. I mean, I’m only at the Garrison because–”

“Hey.” Hunk stopped him. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”

Lance grinned. “Okay. When are you going to ask Shay out?”

Hunk’s face turned a deep shade of crimson. “Okay, maybe not anything else.”

“Come on, you guys are adorable together. I can already imagine the sickeningly sweet pet names you’ll give each other. ‘Sugarplum’. ‘Snugglebunny’. ‘Rock candy’. No, wait, you’d actually like that one, wouldn’t you–”

“Hey, what’s that?” Hunk said, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Please, like I’d fall for that kind of trick–”

“No, seriously, what is that?” Hunk insisted. “There’s some kind of crowd there.”

Lance turned around and squinted at the people Hunk was gesturing towards. All of them seemed to be mesmerized, craning their necks to get a closer look. Lance caught sight of a few details: a few cans of aerosol paint, a gas mask. Some kind of street artist then, one of those guys who made spray paint landscapes. Hunk and Lance walked over and made their way to the front of the group with ease (Hunk had some weird aura that made crowds politely part for him, which Lance always cited as evidence that Hunk was literally an angel). When Lance got to the front, he gasped at what he saw.  
Lance had seen Van Gogh’s paintings up close, picked apart the Mona Lisa in countless lectures, but he had never seen anything like the art before him. And–yeah, he knew it was ridiculous to compare some random guy on the street to Van Gogh and Da Vinci, yet somehow it didn’t feel like an exaggeration. If anything, it felt like an understatement. The art before him was probably done in less than ten minutes, if was anything but proper, but it was breathtaking. 

Five iridescent planets shimmered on a spiraling universe backdrop. Smoke swirled through the dark sky, adding a shimmering haze of red and gold. Blazing comets flew through the air, a shower of light against the night. And on top of it all, two celestial hands bathed in stars reached out through the cosmos, fingertips stretching past galaxies toward each other.

“Shit, that’s kind of gay,” Lance muttered. 

“Sorry, what?” The artist looked up from his work to glare at Lance. 

Shit, Lance thought as he looked back at the guy’s piercing grey eyes. So am I.

“Um,” he started eloquently. “Uh, your hands are really beautiful.”

The other boy raised his eyebrows.

The hands that you’re drawing, obviously,” Lance added, blushing. “I mean, it’s kind of hard to see you own hands, what with the fingerless gloves and all. Although, I’m sure your hands are beautiful too.”

By this point, everyone in the gathered crowd had turned to look at Lance except for Hunk, who was grimacing at the pavement. Something told Lance that it wasn’t the pavement Hunk was embarrassed for. Luckily, the artist seemed oblivious to the awkwardness surrounding him, giving Lance a confused stare and reaching back for his spray paint can.  
Lance suddenly realized that as horrifying as this situation was, it would be a million times worse if the guy went right back to his work and they never spoke again. So desperately, Lance resorted to his last option and his greatest talent: provocation. 

“I mean, beautiful as it is, it’s still maybe the gayest painting in the world,” Lance added with a smirk. 

He tried to seem as detached as possible, but his eyes were fixed on the can of spray paint the guy was holding, waiting and hoping.

Sure enough, the guy put the can down and fixed his attention back on Lance. 

Success, Lance thought, fighting to keep a smile off his face and retain his aloof demeanor.

“Also, you have a mullet,” Lance continued. “I don’t really know what to do with that information or whether or not it’s relevant, but I feel like it’s too significant not to go unnoticed, so I’m just, like, throwing that out there.”

“If you used the word ‘gay’ derogatorily in any way, you should know that you’re an asshole.”

“Why, are you gay?” Lance tried to keep the hope out of his voice. “I would have thought you’d be sexually attracted to like, My Chemical Romance songs and guyliner.”

“Hey! Hi! I’m Hunk, this is my friend Lance, it’s so nice to meet you, it’s really nice to meet you,” Hunk interrupted, offering out his hand. It somehow felt more like a gesture of peace than a greeting, like it was taking everything in him not to add “and I’m so, so sorry about him” to the end of his sentence.

The guy still seemed intently focused on Lance, but no one could resist a handshake from Hunk. 

“Keith,” he said, taking off his mask and shaking Hunk’s hand warily. “Nice to meet you, too.” His tone clearly implied how not nice it was to meet Lance.

By this point, the crowd started to disperse, probably realizing that Keith was done painting for the day. A few people cast Lance looks ranging from confusion to annoyance to pity. Lance isn’t positive, but he’s pretty sure at least one person muttered ‘flirt like a normal person’ before hurrying away.

“So,” Keith said, voice carefully controlled. “Do you care to explain your thoughtful and non-derogatory analysis of my art?”

“Okay, come on,” Lance started, ignoring the warning glances Hunk was shooting him, “It’s two male hands–and based on the anatomy the hands are clearly male–reaching for each other through space. I’m practically right by definition. You can’t tell me you didn’t even intend for it to be even a little gay.” 

Keith scowled and looked away, but Lance noticed he was also blushing a little. 

“Oh my god,” Lance said with delight. “Oh my god.”

“I mean, I guess if you meant literally–” Keith mumbled.

“You really did intend for it to be a super sentimental painting about two guys falling in love in space. Holy shit, dude.” Lance smiled, and Keith’s blush deepened. 

“If this is partly about the fact that they’re male–”

“Oh, please, it’s not like that. I mean, I like guys. I like everybody.” 

“Wait.” Keith’s hostility seemed to evaporate. “You–you like guys?”

Lance winked. “Yeah, and you especially.”

Keith’s eyes widened, and Lance immediately cursed himself for being such an idiot. Keith looked like he had just been hit in the face with an encyclopedia; there was no way that was a positive reaction. Lance flinched and decided to retreat, swallowing his embarrassment.

“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” Lance said hastily, forcing a laugh. “But seriously, you’re sappier than a Jane Austen novel. I shouldn’t have pegged you for a My Chemical Romance man. You’ve definitely cried over a Taylor Swift album at least once.” 

“You’re assuming the hands’ gender,” Keith shot back, so deadpan that it took Lance a second to realize he wasn’t serious. Lance also noted that he didn’t technically deny the Taylor Swift thing, which he decided to interpret as confirmation. “And regardless, you don’t know the relationship these two hands have. Maybe they’re best friends or something.”

“Totally. Just two bros trying to hold hands in space, nothing fishy there.”

“No, wait, actually, I have a theory,” Hunk cut in excitedly. “Maybe it’s Luke Skywalker trying to grab his severed hand back. Explains everything.”

“Hunk, you’re a genius.” Lance snapped his fingers. “Okay, wait, I have one too. Maybe it’s two hand-shaped spaceships about to fight each other.”

“Like from Steven Universe.” Hunk tilts his head. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Keith, you got one?”

Keith blinked. “Uh, someone’s brother is caught in a tractor beam, and they’re trying to save him from being abducted by aliens.”

He said it so fast Lance almost wouldn’t be surprised if that was the real meaning of his painting. Lance suspected Keith just thought about aliens a lot. What a nerd. 

“Nah, yours is unrealistic. If my brother got abducted by aliens, I’d just let him go. That’s what he gets for throwing cake in my face at my seventh birthday party.”

“Alright, do you have a better idea?”

“Maybe the hands themselves are aliens that happen to be shaped like human hands. So it goes.”

“That still wouldn’t explain why they’re reaching for each other.”

“Oh.” Lance shrugged. “Maybe the aliens are best friends or something.”

Keith actually laughed at that, just for a second, and Lance felt like his heart was about to flip over.

“Look, I don’t need random guys on the street deciding they know more about my art than I do,” Keith said, still smiling. “I bet the last time thing you’ve ever painted was a hand turkey in the second grade.”

“Actually,” Lance said, unable to keep a hint of pride out of his voice. “I’m an art student. At the Garrison. You know, one of the best art schools in the country.”

Keith tilted his head. “Huh, I used to go there too. Small world, I guess.”

Lance’s rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure you went there.”

“Yeah. At the top of my class.” Keith didn’t even say it like he was bragging, more like it was just a matter of fact. 

In the corner of his eye, Lance noticed something change in Hunk’s face. He ignored it.

“You were at the top of your class in one of the most exclusive art schools ever and then you dropped out to do spray paint art on the street. Right.”

“You know, Lance, we should probably get going. Keith, it was a pleasure to–”

“Actually,” Keith said, still in that matter-of-fact tone, “I was kind of kicked out.”

Lance’s smugness evaporated. Suddenly, it seemed like the world was moving just a little bit slower.

Lance thought this must have shown on his face somehow, because Keith asked cautiously, “Um, are you–did I say something?” 

Lance didn’t respond. He didn’t think Keith would mind, it’s not like he was actually worried about the feelings of someone who was still, essentially, a random stranger. But then again, Lance was no random stranger. He and Keith were rivals. Except it was a rivalry where one person cared more than anything and the other didn’t seem to care at all.

Of course Keith’s art was so great. He was the star student, and Lance was the guy who got the honor to live in his shadow.

“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” Hunk cut in. “I think he just remembered that we promised our roommate to be home in twenty minutes. It really was nice to meet you, though,” Hunk added, waving goodbye and dragging Lance away to the best of his ability. 

“Nice to meet you too,” Keith echoed with a look of bewilderment.

-

“I can’t believe he was the guy, the Keith Kogane, that fucking asshole,” Lance said, groaning and burying his face in his hands for what was, according to Pidge, the forty-fifth time.

He sat curled up on the couch with Hunk in the middle and Pidge to the right holding a jar of peanut butter. In theory, they were watching an episode of How It’s Made like they did every Sunday night. (Well, Hunk and Pidge watched it; Lance tried to distract them by imitating the narrator’s voice and making up alien products to describe.) But he couldn’t focus on anything for more than two seconds before his mind would drift back to Keith and start shorting out.

“I mean, he’s on the street spray painting gay space hands right now, and he’s the guy that my professor will never shut up about.” Lance’s voice came out strangled. “And the worst part is, I totally get it. I totally fucking get it. His art is–it’s so–shit, he is such an asshole.” 

“Come on, Lance, there’s no use dwelling on it.” Hunk placed a reassuring hand on his shoulders. “Just forget about this whole situation. You’re only going to drive yourself crazy.”

“Joke’s on you, I’m already crazy,” Lance countered half-heartedly. He couldn’t help marveling that Hunk was somehow capable of sounding sincere forty-fifth times in a row. At this point, even Lance was getting kind of sick of himself, or at least his stupid inability to stop thinking about Keith.

“You know, maybe there is some use dwelling on it,” Pidge added as she watched the machine on the screen smooth out a row of metal plates. “I mean, the more you think about it, what’s your problem?”

“Pidge!” Hunk exclaimed with a horrified expression.

“No, hear me out.” Pidge straightened up and looked Lance dead in the eye. “What are you actually upset with the guy for?”

Even though she was half a head shorter than he was, Lance never failed to be a little scared of the determination Pidge had in her. Whenever she had a point to make, she made it her immediate and sole priority, whether it was about the efficacy of encryption or Lance’s dramatic personal life.

“I’m upset with him because...seriously, everyone’s always reminding me how much better he is than me!”

“Yeah, but he didn’t do that.” Pidge jabbed a spoonful of peanut butter in Lance’s direction. “Did Keith seem like the kind of guy who would do that?”

“No, he seems even worse,” Lance muttered. “Like the kind of guy who would use a trophy to prop up a coffee table. Or win an Olympic medal and skip the awards ceremony.”

“That’s not a crime, is it?”

“Come on, it’s–it’s arrogant!” 

“It’s arguably the exact opposite.”

“He’s probably never had to work for anything!” Lance burst out. “He’s probably been a naturally gifted kid his whole life. And I–I work for everything. But still, no matter how hard I tried, I still only got into the Garrison because he gave it up!”

Pidge sighed. “I know it’s not fair. But that’s not his fault.” 

Lance crossed his arms and slumped back into the couch. “You’re my friend, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

Pidge’s face went dead serious. “Lance. In seventh grade you stood in the middle of a corn field with me for six hours trying to contact aliens with a fax machine. I will always be on your side. And that’s why I think you should stop directing your anger at him, go back to the spot where you met him, and talk to him like a real person.”

Lance stared at her, unable to come up with a response. 

“Alright, can we go back to watching How It’s Made? My time isn’t going to waste itself,” Pidge said, turning her attention back to the TV. She sighed with contentment. “Man, look at those mechanical welders go.”

-

Lance stayed up late working on his project, trying to sketch ideas by the light of his glowing laptop screen. He tried to avoid all-nighters as often as possible, but there was something about the darkness and silence and loneliness of the middle of the night that sharpened his focus. 

But Lance didn’t feel the usual sobering effect of two in the morning quiet that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Keith, and his stupid painting, and the fact that he went to the Garrison, and the way his laugh sounded. He wanted to punch Keith in the face. He wanted to prove that he could be better than him. But mostly, he just wanted to see him again.

Talk to him like a real person, Pidge had said. 

Lance decided to go to sleep and keep working on his assignment tomorrow. 

-

As soon as his last class finished the next day, Lance summoned all the courage he had and set out to the spot where he met Keith. He didn’t know what he was going to say, or what he wanted to say. Part of him believed he should apologize, part of him still wanted to make Keith apologize, and part of him wanted to turn back and forget Keith altogether. But Pidge was right. He couldn’t just let himself hate Keith, he didn’t deserve it. Keith was a good person, and Lance didn’t think he wanted to ignore him. He didn’t even think he was capable of it anymore.

As Lance walked down the street, heart beating faster and faster, he couldn’t stop thinking about how ridiculous the whole situation was. He was driving himself crazy over someone he had just met, except he had really known him for years and hated him the whole time, except now he liked him too. It was so convoluted and weird and improbable that it almost made sense that it would happen to Lance, who would describe himself the exact same way. And he knew he’d have to explain the whole mess to Keith somehow, but he’d wait to worry about that until the very last second, until he was actually standing before Keith the same way as he had the day before and forced to make sense. Keith, who was only two blocks away, one street away, a moment away–

Every trace of Keith’s booth was gone, and as disappointed as Lance is, he can’t help but be distantly impressed that he had managed to chase Keith away with only one conversation.

-

“Well, you really did it, Lance.” Pidge muttered. “You finally got me to go to an art show.”

“And,” Hunk added, “Your art was featured in a prominent art show for rising student talent. To think, you were struggling with this project so much in the beginning, and now it’s being featured in a fancy exhibit!”

Lance smiled. He couldn’t muster enough energy to be bouncing-off-the-walls excited anymore, but he had to admit he still couldn’t believe it every time he heard it. Some organization dedicated to honoring student artists had contacted him one day and asked him if he wanted his art displayed in their annual art show, and he said yes with as much restraint as possible. Hunk actually started crying when he heard the news, and Pidge took it as an opportunity to celebrate with champagne. (They all hated it and went out to get Chinese instead, but it was the thought that counted.)

The exhibit did look pretty neat, too. It was set in some garden under the night sky, walls of art zigzagging in between shrubs and flowers. Clusters of people wearing suits and gowns made the room buzz with the sound of small talk and clinking bottles. Gothic lampposts and strings of lights wrapped around trees lit the area and reflected off wine glasses.

But to Lance, the best part was they had really wanted him. The organization had really wanted to display his art. He even asked them, just to be sure it wasn’t all some incredible dream, and the woman on the phone confirmed it. She said nobody ever got chosen if they weren’t good enough, that their organization only accepted the best of the best. They wanted him, and not just because he barely managed to pass their standards, but because they thought was good enough.

As happy as he was, though, he still couldn’t drag his thoughts away from--

“Lance, Lance you have to look at this. I mean, look. Look.” Pidge pointed to a painting to her left. “This is the third time we’ve seen a naked woman smoking a cigarette. One of them was also made out of cigarettes. We’ve passed a sculpture of Mussolini made out of pickle jars. One of the works of art on display was the literal wall.”

“Well, it made sense to me,” Hunk said.

“And this one,” Pidge hissed, grabbing Lance and Hunk by the sleeve and dragging them to the side of the room. “Look at this one. Lance, this is literally your Mona Lisa unicorn sticker idea. The only difference is they used School of Athens. The ideas you come up high on anxiety and caffeine are someone else’s magnum opus. I hate art. I hate art so much--”

“Lance,” Hunk cut in. “Are you okay?”

Lance winced. He’d probably been staring into space again. 

He put on the brightest smile he could muster. “Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking about medieval snail memes.”

Hunk frowned, and Lance wondered why he ever thought he could hope to fool him.

“It’s Keith, isn’t it,” Hunk said bluntly. 

Lance sighed. “Look, it’s been like a month, I just want to forget this already.”

Pidge smirked. “Then you probably shouldn’t have made your–oh my God, look.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “I know you hate modern art, but whatever it is, isn’t probably not as bad as you say it is.”

Pidge let out a strangled laugh, half delighted and half terrified. “Oh no, trust me, it is.”

She grabbed Lance and Hunk by the shoulders (a admirable feat, considering their height difference) and whirled them around to face whatever disaster she was looking at.

Lance sucked in a breath. 

“Wow,” Hunk said, eyebrows slowly drawing together. “Speak of the devil, huh?”

Keith was standing twenty feet away from them, inspecting the pickle jar Mussolini with slightly narrowed eyes and frowning.

Out of instinct, Pidge, Lance, and Hunk immediately dove behind a table. 

“Look!” Pidge hissed. “He was an art student and he doesn’t get it either–”

“Now is really not the time,” Hunk whispered back urgently. He turned to Lance. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know? I thought he just sort of lived in the desert and emerged every once in awhile to shop at Hot Topic.” 

“So are you going to let him see your painting? What’s your plan?”

“This is the plan,” Lance replied, voice lowered. “I’m a medieval snail, this is my shell, and going to hide in it until the day I die.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly practical. But honestly I can’t think of a better plan right now,” Hunk admitted.

“Okay, so it’s settled! Hunk, you can bring me my homework and food, Pidge, you’ll bring your laptop every Thursday so I can watch New Girl--”

“Uh, Lance?” All three of snapped the heads upwards and froze. Keith was looking down at them with an expression equally split between confusion and concern. “What are you doing here?”

Lance swallowed. “Uh...hey.” 

Keith didn’t respond, which was fair. Lance cleared his throat and tried again. “Like...at this art show or under the table.”

“Um, a little bit of both?”

Pidge was the first to react, grabbing Lance’s hand and pulling him to his feet. Hunk followed suit right after, although his expression suggested he wished he’d stayed under the table.

“Hunk and I have the thing at the place that is far away from here, so if it’s okay with you, Lance, we would like to be leaving now,” Pidge announced. 

It wasn’t okay with Lance at all. He wanted to beg them to stay, keep them around like a suit of armor. But even though she had given him the option of choosing, Lance knew what Pidge thought was the right choice, and what Hunk probably thought was the right choice, and what he knew was the right choice.

“You guys go on,” Lance nodded as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m sure the people at the place far away from here are really looking forward to your company.”

Pidge gave a slight nod back, then she and Hunk were leaving, off to find an actual thing at an actual place somewhere in the giant glitzy crowd.

“Um–hey,” Keith started, voice hesitant. 

Lance shoved his hands in his pockets. “Hey.”

A silence stretched out between them. Lance tried to feel nervous, but he could tell any second he was going to say something dumb just to break that silence.

“So anyway–” Lance started, bracing himself for whatever weird thought his brain came up with.

“Um, you look nice,” Keith interrupted, gesturing helplessly at Lance’s suit. 

Lance looked down. He had forgotten that he was wearing one. It was a last minute rental, Hunk helped him figure it out. Lance couldn’t even tie the tie without accidentally choking himself. In bold defiance of the dress code, Keith was wearing his red jacket and jeans, because of course he was. 

“Uh, thanks. You too, I guess,” Lance said. “So hey, what are you doing here?”

“My brother’s girlfriend runs this organization,” he answered simply. “I always come to support them.”

That made sense. A part of him thought Keith manifested out of thin air just to make Lance’s life more complicated.  
“Are you here because your art was chosen?”

Lance nodded, but his mouth was dry. They were dangerously close to talking about his painting, and he did not want to go down that slope.

“Where is it? I’d like to see it.” 

“Um…” Instinctively, Lance’s eyes flicked to the spot almost right behind Keith where it hung, obscured from his perspective by another wall. Keith followed his gaze and started walking in that direction.

“No!” Lance yelped. Keith turned around, startled. “You–you can’t see it. It’s awful.”

Keith smiled and continued walking. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about your art. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Lance smothered a laugh because he absolutely did have reason to be embarrassed about his art and walked alongside him. “Seriously man, you’re going to hate it.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “If it was chosen for this show, it couldn’t be that bad.”

“Keith, you don’t understand. This painting is practically a personal affront to you and seeing it may forever damage your retinas–”

“Lance!” Keith whirled around and put a hand on Lance’s shoulder. Despite his panic, Lance’s brain still took the time to note how nice his hands looked without the gloves. 

“My brother works at the Garrison,” Keith started, looking at his feet. “I, um–I...asked about you, after you ran off and I got home. And he said–he doesn’t know much, but he hears rumors–he told me people are always putting you down by comparing you to me, even your professor, and saying you’re not good enough, and–”

Keith sighed and looked Lance in the eye. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I was even somewhat involved in all that. And I get it. You think that your art isn’t going to measure up. But I promise you, you don’t have to worry. Your talent is your own.”

Lance stared at him in shock. He had no idea what else to say or do, and he got the impression that Keith didn’t either.

“So–I’m just going to go look at it then,” Keith said, stepping around the wall that was blocking his painting.

Lance’s panic kicked back in and he nearly fell forward trying to stop Keith. “I really appreciate everything you said but that’s not why I–”

“Oh.” Keith said quietly. Lance winced and shut his eyes. 

It was such a bad idea. He had no clue why he even decided to paint it, other than the fact that he just felt like he had to. Hunk and Pidge had said it probably wasn’t a good idea, and here he was paying the price for not listening to the two smartest people on Earth.

His painting was a figure standing in an inferno, stance determined and eyes blazing like the red flames roaring around him. The figure was barely practically Impressionist, an abstract mess of brushstrokes. Anybody bystander would think Lance had painted him from memory. But to anyone who knew better, despite its blurriness, it was undeniably a painting of Keith Kogane. 

Lance had a million excuses buzzing around in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak, to break the silence or look at whatever horrified face Keith was making.

“Lance.” Keith said in that same quiet voice. 

“Yeah?” Lance managed, eyes still closed.

“You. Are a goddamn hypocrite!” Keith nearly yelled.

Lance’s eyes flew open, and to his surprise, Keith was smiling, incandescently happy. His whole face lit up like Lance had given him the best news in his life, or maybe like Lance himself was the best news in his life.

“What is happening right now?” Lance asked, lost.

“You call me sappy the moment we met for drawing hands. Hands! And now–” Keith gestured to the painting. “And now you paint this?”

Lance couldn’t help himself, he doubled over laughing. “That’s what you getting out of this?”

“Yes! I’m not going to rush to judgement but this is not a heterosexual painting, Lance!”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Lance gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Shut up shut up shut up shut up.”

“To think, all this time I thought I liked you way too much,” Keith continued, eyes glowing. “And all the while you were–”

“You like me?”

Keith laughed. “Obviously! And I can say that comfortably knowing that apparently I’m your muse or something.”

“Okay, that is the least true thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

“No, no, Lance, I’m art,” Keith went on. “I’m art to you, I’ve just inspired you to–”

“Keith, for all that in good in this world, stop talking.”

“Yeah? Make me.”

Lance smiled. Luckily, he had just thought of the perfect way to do it. He put his hands on Keith’s shoulders, closed his eyes, and leaned forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday yo, but also a moment of silence for the death of all literature as a result of this fic's existence


End file.
